Halfway
by xbellaboox
Summary: James Delaney was well on his way to Ponta Delgada when his crew lose their ship to a storm, 350 miles away. A story of being halfway on journeys, between worlds and at a meeting point.
1. Blood Money

**Halfway**

James Delaney was well on his way to Ponta Delgada when his crew lose their ship in a storm, only 350 miles away. A story of being halfway on journeys, between worlds and at a meeting point.

 **Author's note:** I loved taboo - I'm so intrigued by it all. So impressed with how Tom Hardy can always portray such deep and complex characters... I thought I'd have a play around with what might have happened next on their journey!

 **Disclaimer:** I own nothing but my own characters which you will recognise! I'm not awesome at geography so just work with me... I've based the story just south of Ponta Delgada on the island of Porto Santo.

* * *

"I want this boat." The statement was made with finality. A low command. A foreign sound, and an intrusive one.

The top hat upon the speaker's head continued to cover his dark eyes, as he tossed a heavy velvet bag onto the captain's table before him. A flash of gold glimmered from beneath the loosened strings, reflecting the light filtered through the cabin windows. Light which contrasted starkly with the black coats draped around the three men who had just entered into the room. The only warning had been the quick and rhythmic stomp of heavy boots across the deck.

Beside the captain's chair, a stocky man cleared his throat, and it echoed around the otherwise quiet room. Angus Braithwaite eyed the bag apprehensively.

The normally large cabin became dwarfed by the three men that stood close to the doorway. The largest of the men stept forwards, with his arms by his side, a natural predatory stance morphing him into someone who demanded fear. His clenched fists were the only thing that gave any indication that he was not completely comfortable within the walls of _The Nessa._ The two men at his side could not be more opposite, one with scars and a compass tattooed on his bald scalp, the other well-dressed but with telltale burns to his neck and arm. This crew that had arrived on the shores of Porto Santo, within the week, brought about many questions and little answers.

Freya Helia, captain of _The Nessa,_ did not move from her place behind the table, but rather watched the fingertips she had placed on the edges of the desk slowly lose their colour as her grip tightened. This _man_ was exactly as she had expected. James Keziah Delaney. Arrogance rolled off him in waves, and it made her stomach clench. He did not acknowledge her, but rather had his body turned towards Angus, as if waiting for confirmation. Angus was normally a hardened man, a quartermaster with a belly that had seen too many ales and eyes that were in a constant glare of suspicion. He had heard the rumours, they all had. It was hard not to overhear the wildfire of newcomers that had reached the small island.

Angus' eyes flicked wearily between Freya and the men before him. He knew fair well of the violence that followed in the wake of this crew, and knew just as well the lack of men that were currently aboard the decks Freya's ship. If the rumours were true what was said about this man, he was not to be trifled with. Glancing at the clock above the doorway, he could make out the two hours that were still to pass before his men were due back from tending to the other ships. The storm that had been brewing across the ocean had reached their shore the night before, and had not been kind to those on the shoreline. Swallowing past the growing lump in his throat, he almost winced as the noise broke the lingering silence. His mistress still did not speak, and Angus felt the hairs on the back of his neck start to rise as Delaney rose his hand to wave gloved fingers in the direction of the gold. Such a simple gesture, but one that reflected the power behind his form.

'You should find that more than enough for this _ship_." The last word was spoken with a slightly lowered inflection, his intent clear of what he thought of the state of _The Nessa._ True, it had seen better days. And by god that gold in there was more than needed. The port had seen a particularly devastating season, as the storms and hurricanes had devastated the trade routes. Fear of the port was ever-growing and it was ever clear that there were more lucrative trade routes becoming available. However, the use of the islands as a base for ships on their was to Ponta Delgada was still as strong. Though not all visitors were as welcome.

The screech of a lantern on its hook forced a blink from the women behind the desk, and she pulled her gaze from her icy fingers, up to the portly man who was attempting to right the steel lantern he had stumbled into. He cleared his throat and mumbled what may have been an apology as he ran a roughened hand over his tattooed head. A crooked, bashful smile graced his lips and the dull shine of gold appeared as his teeth came into view.

"Maybe we ought to introduce ourselves to the lady?" He suggested, no apparent fear for the man standing in front of him. "Out of politeness and all?"

Delaney did not move, but his knuckles clenched further, which did not go unnoticed. He was not a patient man. It went without saying that he did not care for introductions, and considered any more discussion a waste of his time. The last man had stayed quiet, and clearly knew his master would not be offering any small talk. He stepped closer to the Captain's table towards Angus.

"My name is Dr George Cholmondeley, I am a lover of chemistry and of women," he almost drawled, his voice smooth. A slight rasp at the end of his sentence gave wind to smoke damage from whatever had left the explosive scars on the side of his neck. He bowed very slightly to Angus and lower to Freya, whose eyes were drawn to him slowly. Motioning to the still slightly stumbling man behind him he spoke with somewhat disapproval, "This is Atticus, a man of very little talent and a face that only a mother could love." This gained a scowl from said man, and a slight tilt of Freya's head at the man's attempt at humour. She could tell he was saving the most notorious introduction for last, though she did not know whether it was for dramatic effect or because he was putting it off for as long as possible. As the doctor's dark gaze moved from his counterpart to his master, Freya braced herself. She would not give him the chance to spin tales about this man _._ As he opened his mouth, she finally spoke.

"I know who you are."

A small, almost sad smile grew on the doctor's face. Of course she did. This kind of crew did not go to places without eliciting whispers. The question was, how much of these whispers were of truth, and would they create enough of a rumble to lead this ship to fall into their lap. The sun that flickered through the windows of the ship danced across the women's face, creating an eerie effect on her pale skin. One of small squares in the window was broken, and the dust that gathered in the light floated silently in the slight breeze let through the cracks. The dark hair gathered at Freya's neck came loose slightly as she turned in her chair to better look at Cholmondeley.

"Then you will know that our ship was destroyed beyond repair in the most recent storm," he stated, moving past Delaney to rest an arm on her table. Freya felt the muscles in her throat tighten as he moved closer.

"News travels quickly on such a small island," Freya said quietly, not taking her eyes of the man, as his eyes flickered briefly to Delaney, before settling back to her. Cholmondeley's smile became forced as he considered Delaney's silence. It was more often than not a sign of barely restrained anger that constantly seemed to run through the man since they had left England. He moved on quickly, urging the conversation to the point.

"That it does. It has already come to our attention that the ships on this island answer to the Helia Anchoring company," Cholmondeley moved to run his fingertips over the velvet bag containing the gold. "With _The Nessa_ being the most competent and ready for our... needs."

Freya leant back on her chair slightly and folded her arms. She could feel her fingers tingling as the blood flowed through them once more. "And what _needs_ might that be?"

A loud bang startled Cholmondeley as James Delaney stepped forward, grabbing hold of the banister in the middle of the cabin roughly with a gloved fist. This women was already making him angry. The familiar fire of it twisted around him and focused his gaze.

"That is none of your concern." His voice was rougher than before, and his head tipped back enough for Freya to see the shadows over his dark eyes as they stared her down. The scar over his left eye was crinkled as he glared across the room at her. He spoke to Angus, without turning from her. "You would be wise to take the money."

Angus stepped forward slightly and placed a hand on Freya's shoulder in a silent bid of support. She knew he thought it wise as well. "Lass, you may want to-"

"Excuse me gentleman, I would speak to Mr. Delaney alone," Freya cut her quartermaster and long time friend off before he had the chance to share his opinions. She felt his fingers grip her shoulder tighter and drew in a long breath. Delaney's eyes narrowed, though he said nothing. He could see that he trusted her as much as she trusted him. Freya had no interest in his trust, only the sight of him behind locked bars.

"Freya," Angus whispered almost harshly and she held a hand up to stop him.

"That's not a request." Angus was unused to her cold demeanour, but would not question her authority as captain. As much as a captain as she could be. She heard him swallow loudly and release her shoulder slowly. Delaney inclined his head slightly to his men, indicating that they should leave. They too appeared at a loss, and it was only with a barked order from Delaney did they move to leave. Angus followed with a weary look over his shoulder. Freya could only nod at him as he closed the cabin door, the fear, anger, _disgust_ had blocked her throat. She had hoped she would never come across this man, but fate had other plans.

Delaney took off his hat and placed it on the edge of the table, revealing dirty, dark hair shaped into wet spikes. The shadows disappeared from his eyes and she could see into the dark blue depths that almost appeared black. She had seen these eyes before, though not through her own. He ran a hand over his face and through his beard, glancing around the run-down cabin before turning his gaze back on her.

"Name your price," he said gruffly, impatient. Steeling herself to his icy glare, she sat up straighter, not liking how small he made her feel. Swallowing past that damn lump in her throat, she reminded herself that _she_ was the captain of the ship. _She_ owned the company. Even if it was through inheritance, it was hers to do with what she wished.

"Let me make myself clear from the beginning, Mr Delaney," she spoke, heart skipping as her voice trembled slightly. He watched her every move, muscles in his jaw tightening with each passing second. Reminding herself of who exactly this person before her was, she pressed on. "I would rather sink every single one of my ships to the bottom of the ocean, before I would sell one to you."

Silence encompassed the room very briefly, while Delaney's eyes flashed with something akin to surprise and settled into rage. His shoulders rolled back and he stood even firmer. Freya watched him, feeding off his rage and feeling her own rise.

"You do not," his voice was steady and low, "Want to cross me, Helia."

She was not surprised that he knew who she was, it was not hard to find out. What did rattle her slightly was his straightforward threat to her. Not that she would let him see. The muscles in her throat were so tight that she was surprised that she could speak.

"I have no interest in your threats, Mr Delaney." She watched his eyes darken impossibly further. "You are on my island, with my ships, and I do not associate with men like you."

A hiss escaped his teeth as he placed his hands on the front of the desk, the leather in the gloves protesting as he clenched his hands. Leaning forward he growled, "You know _nothing_ of men like me."

Freya let a small smile left the corners of her lips and she pushed her chair back from the table to stand. She was tall, and her height stabilised her against his tall frame. She wiped her sweaty palms on the skirts of her dress and stepped back. She would not let him intimidate her.

"Men like you..." she repeated, beginning to walk away from him towards the other side of the cabin. Picking up papers from a side table she continued angrily, "Men who swear allegiance to their country. Men who people trust upon. Men who lie and steal and _cheat-"_

She was cut off when a strong hand gripped her upper arm and spun her around harshly.

"Be very careful, girl,"His voice was still that smooth rasp, and Freya almost admired his control. "You are right. I am a dangerous man. And my patience has run out."

Pulling away from his burning grip she tossed the papers that she held in her hands at his feet. They scattered across his dark, dirty boots and he slowly pulled his stony eyes from hers, to glance in their direction.

 _Cornwallis sinks, skeleton crew drown._

The heading on the yellowed paper was still bold and ever striking. The faded picture of a large ship upon the water at the dock, was a haunting one. Nothing needed to be said, this was evidence enough to state that she knew of exactly what kind of man James Delaney was. She had held onto that picture for as long as she could remember, and had stared at the picture more than she would care to admit since this new crew had arrived on her shores. The name James Keziah Delaney was one that she had burned into her mind, like red hot steel. One that she would never forget and had never hoped to come across. There was only a small crew on that ship. A small, dishonest, sinful crew. And they should have all been swallowed by the sea for what they had done.

"Not many people know. But I know of _your_ journey," Freya whispered, her breath coming fast and quick as memories assaulted her. The jeers from the sidewalks, the stones thrown at her family, the burning of her childhood home. "There was another on the ship. Jebidiah Helia."

Freya could barely bring herself to look at the man before her, but she needed to see that he understood. That he knew. He had not removed his eyes from the paper below him, but his eyes flickered slightly as he took in the picture. The muscle that ticked in his jaw and his closing fists indicated that he did indeed know of whom she spoke.

"My father died alongside the rest of your crew," she spoke so quietly, but she knew he heard. "When that ship sank, so did my family's reputation."

People knew that they had lost a lot of money on the illegal slave trade, and a lot of future business with Helia Anchor. With it came hate, anger and resentment. It brought her mother and sister's death. And it brought a deep-set black ring of utmost rage that forever squeezed around Freya. Blinking back tears that watered her vision, she drew in a shaky breath. "So no, Mr Delaney. I will not sell a single ship to a murdering slave trader."

Finally the man's eyes lifted to hers and although she had some small hope that she would see remorse, guilt or pain on his face that was dashed when his eyes met hers. James Delaney's face was frozen into a stone mask and Freya quickly realised that no emotion was much more terrifying than any real feelings. She took an instinctive step back towards the door and he quickly matched her step. As she began to back away from him with more haste, he grabbed the bag full of coins without breaking her gaze and took swift strides towards her. She had barely yanked the door of the cabin open when she was pushed roughly against the railing outside. She felt her back press up against a solid, vicious figure and her stomach get pushed hard into the railing. She could see the dark, swirling water below her through blurry tears and went to call out when a roughened, gloved hand came around her throat, resting two fingers over her lips and two under her jaw to silence her. Freya knew he would feel her fear, feel her shaking body. She closed her eyes as she felt his bearded cheek brush against her ear as he whispered to her harshly, almost silently.

"I have done much worse than journey on a sinking slave ship," the final sound was sharp in her ear as he announciated each word carefully. "And I will continue to do. Much. _Worse._ "

A tear slipped down her cheek as the hand around her face tightened and he slipped the other around her waist tightly. She could feel the heavy bag of coins against her hip and felt herself nearly choke on her fear. She hated how scared he made her, hated the rumours that surfaced in her mind of his flesh eating, his torture, his malice. Her mind had always been one for imagination, and it was often her downfall.

Turning her around, she was so close to him that she could see the stormy colours in his iris'. He would have been beautiful she realised, had it not been for his ugly sins. Pulling her hand up roughly he placed the bag of coins in her hand and nodded once.

"You have two hours to leave this ship," his voice shook slightly, though with what she did not know. "You will arrange the papers to be sent to me."

It was on the tip of her tongue to agree, to give in to the warm body pressed against hers. His head tilted slightly as he raked his eyes over her face and it was only when his gaze released her did was she shaken from her fear. This man had been responsible for the death of her father, was responsible for the death of hundreds of slaves, slaves that haunted her dreams. She would not bow. Turning her hand ever so slightly over the banister, she let the coins drop into the water, one by one. A golden cascade was swallowed by the sea, and with it she felt herself relax. Let him do his worst.

"Go and collect your blood money," she said smoothly, her voice now resolute. "I hope the weight of it drowns you like you drowned those men."

 **Ruh Roh!**


	2. Rumours

**Rumours**

 **Disclaimer:** I own nothing but my own characters. Enjoy!

The journey from England so far had been a haze of whiskey and numbness. He had not wanted to feel anything except the rocking of the ship as it took him away from what he had left behind. Brace, his memories, his sister. His love. In London he had not felt anything except anger, rage and a burning satisfaction as he had worked systematically through his enemies, through what he needed to do. It had been a long time since he had felt real fear. Had not let himself feel it. Nonetheless he had felt the icy claws clutch at his lungs as he learnt of Zilpha's death. Felt that he should draw his last breath as she had drawn hers. How had he not known? How had he not felt it? He would have felt a part of him leave along with her... wouldn't he? The fear was not for where she would go after death. He knew she would go where she wanted to be, at peace. The fear was for his own sanity, the ideas and surities that he held so tightly to, which stopped him from tumbling into insanity like his father. He did not need poison to see and do the things his father had done. His memories, actions and being were of their own toxicity, threatening to drown him, to sink him. What he had held onto was that she had been the same as him. His other half. The same person.

Wasn't she? Even after he had turned her away, told her she was no longer the same as him. He had done too much, had seen too much. She wanted peace when he knew he would never be capable of it. He barely recognised himself anymore, and therefore did not see himself in her. Even after he turned her away. He still loved her, still held onto a piece of her to anchor him. So how did he not know, did not feel that she had left him? The many days and nights he had spent at sea since her death had merged into one, long, tortured dream. Time on his hands was something he could not deal well with. Fear was not something he wanted to recognise. Could not let it. Yet he had felt it. His body had rebelled, had caged it once again to save himself. All he could let himself feel now was numb. Or he did not know what would become of him...

The memories assailed him violently, unwelcome and with great force, so he was not able to focus on his hand around the neck of the girl before him. His vision shook, the anger that she had provoked in him a dangerous incoming tide that was threatening to swallow him. He had to be careful, or others would come to feed on his anger, his fear.

" _Go and collect your blood money."_

" _I hope the weight of it drowns you like you drowned those men."_

He felt himself begin to shake violently, her words like a knife to his gut. Twisting the anger into something he could not control. The woman knew _nothing_ of what she spoke. How dare she tempt him into the familiar burn of anger once more. With anger came others. She would soon realise what a mistake she had made. He tried to focus his dark gaze on her face, wanted to see it as he took the life from her. Though she felt warm beneath his hands, he could not find enough to hold on to. His vision continued to swim as the raw emotion took over him, visions of Zilpha being pushed back as he finally focused in on the women's dark green eyes in front of him. He must not think of her now.

Satisfaction roared through him as he saw the fear that slowly crept into them, any colour left in her pale face drained and he felt her swallow past the fingers he tightened at her throat. Before he could pull himself back, her eyes began to change as his vision switched violently between a dark, lurching ship, and the calm waters where he stood. They had smelled his fear. They were here to collect.

Her green eyes were haunted as they flickered and became a deep brown. Deep brown and lifeless. The ship lurched and he held onto her now, for else he would fall. He tried to pull his gaze from her as water poured around his ankles, he could no longer hear the birds, only screams.

"You are not here," he rasped. He felt the blood making his fingers slippery, no longer able to grip her face but sliding over her dark cheek. He knew those eyes. He had heard her screams, seen the blood blacken the dirty water. His hands shook so violently that he had to let go, had to leave before they dragged him down with him. The women just stared, her face was no longer her own, just a broken, tragic reminder of someone already passed.

"I have no fear to give you," he hissed, pushing away from her, searching for something to hold onto as the ship continued to sink. The women stepped forward and the frozen scrape against his lungs took his breath away as she heard his visions speak for the first time in his life.

"We are here."

The voice was not one of this world. It warped and disjointed, a mix of the voices he heard so often haunting his dreams. A steady hand reached towards him and its fingertips dripped as they stretched. The water around him was getting deeper, weighing down the sinking ship. As the fingers reached his heaving chest, they brushed over his shirt softly, almost a caress and it sent him reeling backwards. He felt pain in the back of his head as he crashed backwards into the side of the ship and the vision began to flicker and stutter in front of him. The dark waves around him became clear and the black, dead eyes became focused and green once more. The hand stayed outstretched and he could not move his eyes from the shaking, pale hand still so close to him. Finally free from his vision's grip, he shook himself. Pushing roughly away from the wall, the women spoke to him in her own voice once more.

"You think you have no fear to give them. But one day you will have something to lose."

The words that followed him scraped at his conscious, and he did not even realised he had turned and started away from her, until he had reached the steps off the ship. He did not spare his men a glance, but continued his swift, steady stride away from the ghost ship. He could not begin to think what his vision meant. Or the fact that it didn't end when he came back to reality.

James Delaney had been shaken from his slumber.

* * *

Long, stormy days had passed, though he could not count how many. He had sat, crouched for longer than he cared to think about. Barely moving, he had not eaten or slept. He had tried to sink back into the numb slumber that he had created, but it would not let him. He could not cage his anger, or his fear. It was eating him alive. Only now was he really feeling the knife of Zilpha's death to its true capacity. The ripping, tearing of his flesh from the inside burned through him until he could could not breathe past it.

As he had locked himself away, he let himself sink into the agonising grief. He barely knew where he was, nor did he care. He had not seen light for days, boarding up the windows and door. He could feel his breath come out in a hot mist as the heavy air wrapped around his stiff limbs. He wondered briefly how long it would be until he burnt through his last breath. Hoped it would finally bring him some relief from the torrent of emotions pulling at him. How utterly _weak._

He did not stir when his companions finally found their way into the boarded room, did not respond to Lorna's tugging on his arm, or the blanket placed around his dirty, sweat-ridden shoulders. He wanted nothing from them. He could smell some foreign perfume on Lorna and it reminded him of the way Zilpha used to smell as she brushed past him with a smile. Rage erupted from him as he rose more swiftly than he should, sending Lorna tumbling to the floor below him.

'Get out,' he growled, knowing almost immediately that she would not obey. Lorna, loyal past what he knew. That women was one of the only people stupid, or sweet, enough to continue to push her boundaries with him. Brushing off her red, velvet dress delicately, she stood once more. She showed no signs of hearing him, except a slight crinkle in her brow as she frowned. Readjusting the blanket on his shoulders she put her nose up in the air slightly,

'You have been in this room for days now,' her voice was as floaty as it always was. 'It is time to find a ship and be away from this... island.'

It was clear that she was unimpressed with their unplanned stop in their journey. Lorna had voiced this many times throughout the last few months that the storms were too much for the ship. How she knew this was beyond him, but his potent need to make it across the sea blinded him. He did not see past the rain, the waves and the thunder. The storm had caught them as they continued into the open of the North Atlantic. It's wids pushed them off journey, snapped their sails and sent them into the tiny island they were now on. The ship destroyed as it entered the shores. Lorna hadn't dared voice the 'I told you so' that they all knew had been on the tip of her tongue.

James could make out Atticus pulling the wood from the windows with a crow bar, clearly under Lorna's instruction. He cast a wary glance between James and Lorna as he continued his job. The sudden light that shone through the dirty windows stung James' eyes and he narrowed them. He did not want this intrusion.

"Would you rather stay trapped in this damned room waiting to die and rot?" she questioned, folding her arms across her chest tightly. James could see the tears on her cheek shimmer as she turned to look around the room.

'Leave,' he almost hissed. 'Now.' He could not abide the tears. Did not want them. He did not need them.

Lorna huffed out her breath and made a swift departure as the tone of James' voice became as heated as the air around them.

"There are those on this island that do not appreciate our presence." She sniffed lightly as she left the room, pausing briefly in the door way. "Will you find a ship?"

James slammed his fist into the wall beside him, the room rocking slightly with the force of it. He'd had enough of women questioning him and defying him. Turning towards Lorna slowly, he watched as she backed out of the room.

"There will be no fucking ship," he spat after her.

Atticus coughed lightly as the dust covering the windows surrounded him and James' jaw clenched. James could almost hear him contemplating his next move.

"There may be another ship," he started, waiting to gauge James' reaction. He had clearly gathered that it had not gone well with Helia Anchoring, and was reluctant to bring it up after seeing the reaction that James had given. James turned slightly at this news to indicate that he was listening, but did not trust himself to speak yet.

Atticus wiped his brow and continued slowly, "There is another crew that stay on the end of the island. Has about ten men. Interesting captain."

James flicked his eyes up to Atticus, his stare wide and confronting. He knew this stare was not one that men wanted upon them. As expected, Atticus paled slightly and hurried to continue.

"The man in charge is someone who we might not want to let know we are here," Atticus' eyes flicked towards the door to make sure Lorna had truly gone. "Strange's brother. The one who owns that sugar plantation."

James drew in a long breath as he finally moved and tested his stiff muscles. _Interesting indeed_ , he thought. Maybe there was more to this island that he had anticipated. And more business to be done. Feeling himself calm slightly with the anticipation of a mission and way forward, he rolled his shoulders and ran his tongue over his bottom lip as he considered what the man had said.

"This ship," James started, his voice hoarse from the tension he had held in his neck. He could see Atticus visibly relax as James' tone reduced. "It is not owned by Helia?"

Atticus shook his head and threw the crow bar to the side before dusting his hands off. "The only ship on the island that aint."

James ran a hand over his beard and turned towards the window, air entering his lungs easier with this information. He wondered what a man like Strange was doing on such as small, nondescript island. There was something amiss.

As he stared out into the harbour, he considered this new piece of information. This stop could be the perfect opportunity to do business that he had not yet anticipated. It would be a sweet revenge after all...

This had been the man waiting for the Corwallis to deliver its cargo all those years ago. The man who insisted on the skeleton crew to disguise the slaves shackled below. This man, if rumour was ripe, that still kept the slave trading industry well funded.

"Not a man to be trifled with, they say," Atticus continued, "Wants Helia's company."

"And who is they?" James questioned, not looking away from the window. One of the ships was leaving the harbour as they spoke and he wondered briefly whether that woman was on it. Pushing her memory back he looked away from the ship as Atticus hesitated in his reply.

"Er, the whore down the street," he mumbled. "Full of information that one."

James turned slowly and pulled the blanket from his shoulders, picking up his long, dark coat from where he had discarded it on the floor. This news didn't surprise him in the slightest, his crew were not noble men.

"Helia's pretty vocal about the slaves I hear," Atticus continued, as he watch James ready himself to leave. He didn't know whether to be relieved or not. "Bet old Strange don't like that."

Tucking this piece of information away into the back of his mind, he picked up his top hat and placed it on his head.

Yes, it was time to pay a visit.


	3. The Price of Loyalty

**The Price of Loyalty**

 **Disclaimer:** I own nothing but my own characters.

 **Author's note:** Welcome back! And so we continue... Enjoy x

It had been years since the first face had haunted her dreams. She had been a much younger girl, susceptible to thoughts of superstitions and stories of the devil. The Spanish ladies were never shy to share stories of the unknown. It was part of the culture of the small island, courtesy of its closeness to the European countries. Stories, myths and whispers spread inland to the islands.

At first, she could not make out the features of the faces, could not quite take in the picture. Blurs of black, the darkest of blues and the brilliant whites of eyes merged into an eerie canvas that was painted across her closed eyes. What she did know, from the very beginning, was the smell.

The acrid stench of sweat, the bitter tang of fear mixed with the copper of blood. The salt of the sea was no longer a comfort to her, but stained the walls of her mind as she fought against it. The closer they got to her in her dreams, the stronger she could smell the toxic air. It made her stomach roll and she could barely draw a breath. This was only the beginning. Soon, the faces became clear, the source of the blood made evident. The whites of the eyes so striking, as they sat in dark, gaunt faces. Staring, always watching. Never speaking. She had seen similar faces on the island, so dark and beautiful. Some free, and others most definitely not. Freya had come to know which ones were not. She made the connection one day when gazing at the yellow and grey canary which sat caged above the archway to the balcony of her room. She had often sat here, the polished wooden floors cool in the morning before the blazing sun warmed them. The bird had been her 16th birthday present, a rarity all the way from Africa. Just like _them_. At first it had chirped and made its way around its steel cage, but slowly the sounds became less and less. It stopped seeking a way out, and simply resolved itself to its prison. Its small, black eyes held the same blank stare of slaves she had come to know. When she had opened its cage with shaking fingers, it had not even tried to escape. Freya remembered prying its small body from the cage and pushing it to fly to freedom. If only it were that easy for other caged beings. When she had tried to talk to her mother about the black slaves, and why they were not free, she had avoided her eyes and would not talk about it.

It was only when her father died, that the people in her dreams started to speak to her. Some screamed, some clenched their teeth at her in anger. The ones that did not speak were those that she feared the most. It was not until she heard of the slave ships and listened to the hissed threats made to her mother, that she felt the cold trickle of realisation sink into her spine. Her father's name was never far from their lips, whispered, hissed, cursed. These were the people that her father had sailed as slaves. Those that had sat beneath the decks of ships for months on end, shackles around their ankles and wrists. These were the eyes of those who had seen torture, fear and suffering. These were the eyes of the dead.

* * *

Freya shook herself from her thoughts as she stared into the mirror before her. The memories left her once gain questioning the balance she held between sanity and something much less. Was it that she had simply seen too much? Let her imagination run wild, and her mind would not let her forget it quickly…

She sat stiffly in the quarters of her father's ship, no _her_ ship. It was late and she could see the flickers of the candle in the lantern beside her reflect the dark circles under her eyes. It had been a long time since she had thought back to the dreams in depth, she had become so used to the faces that they no longer woke her in a panicked state. Until recently.

Running her fingers through her thick hair, she untangled the knots created by the wind and salty water and wondered what had stirred the dead. They had been silent for years, now there was almost a desperation to their pleas, heated fear and rage that she could not separate. She could not help but feel that this awakening had occurred as the latest storm had brought in their new visitors. Freya knew that James Delaney had been on that ship. They had whispered his name in hushed voices. They spoke to him too. Her green eyes shimmered as she remembered his fingers around her throat, the emotion that had twisted his face into something demonic. She had not seen him since he had stumbled from her ship, and she hoped that it was the last she would hear from the traitorous man.

Any pink in her cheeks had paled with direction of her thoughts and she let out a small sigh, shaking away the unwanted memories. Her smile had been called beautiful, years ago, before she had lost her naivety. It was not often that a smile graced her features any longer, her full lips often set in a hardened line. Lifting a glass of amber liquid to her lips, she remembered the hours she and her sister would spend in front of this exact mirror, painting their faces and twisting their thick hair into the elaborate knots done in Spain. They had even tried to copy some of the woven braids that they had seen the African ladies prefer. Freya had never had the courage to sweep the paint under her eyes and across her cheeks the way that they did on special occasions. She had watched with intrigue and envied the joy they had found on such an island.

While Freya's hair was unruly and dark, her sister was a vision, her golden hair falling almost to her waist. The dark green eyes and their mother's pale, Irish skin were the only thing the sister's shared. Freya had remembered cursing its ease to burn in the hot summers. Oh to have such trivial worries now.

Suitors came and went, though both sister's thought they had all the time in the world to find their handsome prince, and settle into their perfect world. Her sister's eyes danced in her vision as she stared into the mirror. Every time she looked at her own dull eyes, she would have the harsh reminder of who was no longer here. Freya could not remember the last time a man had looked at her as anything other than a captain, a traitor's daughter or a potential whore. There were no more suitors, and that was fine by her. Startled slightly from her dark thoughts, a sharp knock rang through the quarters, echoed on the wood around her. Placing her glass down harder than she had planned, the whiskey sloshed over the side and across the vanity table.

"You have a visitor Captain," a low voice rang out and she recognised the voice of the sailing master on her ship. Freya recalled how the young, dark boy from Africa's shores had never been far from her father's side when he was younger. William Taylor was now a tall and intimidating figure, that she found herself very fond of. His talents were well known and valuable, unmatched on this island at least. She had never had the courage to ask him whether he had served her father as slave or companion, though she had made it clear that he was a free man under her order. He had never left her side.

 _A visitor at this hour?_ Freya glanced out of the window at the moon which was high and bright in the star lit sky. She ran a mental list of those who wanted to speak with her through her head, none of them pleasant. However, Taylor would not have brought someone here that he had deemed a threat. She stood and made her way to the heavy door, pulling down the latch with a screech of metal. Freya's eyebrows rose as she saw who stood behind it. Taylor was glancing appreciatively at the women beside him, and Freya almost rolled her eyes. The man was barely older than her own twenty-eight years and had bedded more women than she could even imagine. Which was saying something on such a small island. He was handsome in a boyish sort of way, his dark eyes charming and teeth white against his chocolate coloured skin. He made his way with sweetly spoken words that he hadn't dare use on Freya. As he continued to stare at the women, Freya cleared her throat to break his trance. Taylor snapped his eyes back to Freya and had the decency to look bashful. The women was something, Freya had to admit. A beautiful, soft face with red lips and a dress to match, she was a sight not often seen aboard a ship. Her eyes too bright to be a whore, but her dress not modern enough to be the wife of a rich man. So who was she?

"Lorna Delaney," Taylor answered her inward query, and Freya's eyes narrowed. Another damned Delaney, it could be no coincidence. It was late and she had not had near enough whiskey to warrant this conversation. Leaning into the doorway, Freya folded her arms tightly across her chest. She could tell the women in front of her was not nearly dressed for the hot temperatures in her thick velvet dress. She wiped her brow delicately and looked almost longingly past Freya to the cooler quarters.

"Miss Delaney-" Freya started and was cut off almost absentmindley as the women corrected,

" _Mrs_ Delaney."

Freya's frown deepened, she had no idea how that brute had managed to lock in such a beauty as a wife. Freya could not help but be curious as to why the women had come aboard her ship so late at night, with no one to escort her.

"Where is your husband?" Freya asked and Lorna's eyes finally locked onto hers. They were bluer than any ocean she had seen and were bright with the starlit night around her.

"My husband is dead," she began. "May I come in and speak to you in private?" Lorna glanced briefly at the hulking figure of Taylor beside her and Freya nodded once to him. This was bound to be an interesting chat, without a doubt. She was not a threat. Taylor almost reluctantly made to leave, tipping his hat slightly on his head before turning and walking away. Freya turned her body slightly to let the other women pass by her and the smell of night-scented lillies drifted past her. The scent suited her well, both delicate and beautiful. Closing the door, Freya ran her damp hands over the skirt of her light, cotton dress and turned to find Lorna standing in front of the mirror she had just sat in front of. Freya caught her startling blue gaze in the mirror and tugged her bottom lip between her teeth. A habit she had picked up when she was piecing things together.

"How may I help you, Mrs. Delaney?" she asked, her gaze not leaving the other women. She watched as the shorter women ran slender fingers over her hairbrush before speaking softly.

"I understand James came to speak with you about the purchase of a ship."

Freya's eyes searched Lorna's face in the mirror. She could not see fear, so she must have come of her own accord.

"I want to know why he came back with nothing but a foul temper," Lorna's voice was hesitant, as though she knew she should not be asking, but was stubborn enough to ask anyway. The thought of someone going against James Delaney's wishes was enough to warrant an answer from Freya.

"I will not sell to your…" Freya raised her eyebrows to indicate that she did not know what relation this woman held to the more dangerous Delaney on the island.

"Son. By marriage," Lorna replied simply, offering no more explanation. Eventually Freya nodded slowly. So Lorna had been the wife of a rich man, but was no more. She did not begin to pretend to understand the dynamics of the two, and squashed down her curiosity to convince herself that she did not care. Freya's eyes darkened as she recalled the snarl on James Delaney's face, which she was sure had brought many before her to their knees.

"I will not sell to James Delaney," Freya repeated, and walked close to the woman to pick up her tumbler once more. The whiskey was a welcome burn in her throat and she envisioned it melting away the tension in her neck which was quickly building from this conversation. Out of the corner of her eye, Lorna shifted slightly and turned away from the mirror to look directly at Freya. Though shorter, she held herself with much more grace than Freya could ever hope to. Lorna shuffled slightly as if hesitating with a decision, and Freya waited with a patience she had not knew she had possessed. After some time, Lorna reached into the pockets of her heavy dress and pulled out a small, glistening jewel in her palm. A diamond. Holding it out in her pale palm, she pushed it towards Freya quickly before she could regret it. Neither woman moved for what seemed like an eternity, and the hand outstretched between them began to tremble.

"I do not know much about the business or trade," Lorna's unsteady voice finally broke the awkward silence, "But I do know that this is enough for a ship. Twenty ships even."

Freya pulled her eyes from the shining jewel that shook slightly and searched the depths of Lorna Delaney's face. Diamonds were not come across easily, and none where there were no slaves involved. Masters did not do the digging. Freya felt her skin cool even with the humid air around them. There was some kind of façade she was sticking to, something she was living that was not all that it seemed. Her sky coloured eyes were not quite clear, and had become glazed with something akin to tears. Freya felt her chest squeeze slightly. She could not stop the pity from seeping through her hardened posture. Vulnerability similar to what she had seen in her mother was written in bold ink across Lorna's face.

"Where are you headed in such a hurry, Mrs Delaney?" She asked evenly, needing to know why she would give up something so precious for something as simple as a ship. She could get a ship crafted for something so much less. Lorna sniffed slightly, it was hard for Lorna to hold back from this lady. It had been so long since she had someone to talk to who didn't think with his cock or brood in a desolate silence. Even the shadows beneath Freya Helia's emerald eyes could not hide the softness of her face and the rich milky tones in her skin. Lorna was so torn between wanting an ally like herself, and being that weak link that James had been so quick to pin on her. She knew he did not feel that way any longer, did not shy away from her touch. He had cared for her the past few months as she had recovered from her bullet wound. Her shoulder still ached in the cold and for that she welcomed the scorching heat that came with an island so close to Africa. James was unused to being cared about, and she would seek to change that. Clearing her throat past the indecision, Lorna took a deep breath and answered as best she could.

"My crew and I are on our way deeper into the North Atlantic," Lorna almost whispered, ridiculously afraid that even when he was not here, James would be able to hear her. She had no doubt about the look that would enter his fierce eyes should he learn where she was and with whom. She had been on the receiving end of that stare one two many times already and had seen what happened to those who he chose to act upon. Mostly it involved their entrails.

Frowning slightly, Freya's curiosity peaked once more. There were not many stops within the North Atlantic. This was a lady, not one that would often be seen in the Azores. That region was not a destination for those unprepared. Those who did not know what they were getting themselves into.

"What is it that you seek?" Freya asked, picking up the whiskey bottle and pouring another glass for the nervous woman behind her. As Lorna went to decline, Freya pushed the drink into her hand which did not hold the diamond. Her frown deepened when she felt how, even now, Lorna's hands were ice cold.

"It is a passage to the new world," Lorna rambled, trying to give enough information away, but also hide it deep within her. It became clear to Freya that Mrs Delaney possibly did not know exactly what the purpose of their visit across the sea was, but was more focused on their final destination. And even if she did know the purpose, she would not have been told about the dangers.

"Are you aware of where we sit, on this island Mrs Delaney?" Freya questioned, and Lorna took a long drink from her glass, searching for some strength within it. Lorna nodded resolutely but Freya carried on regardless, needing to stress her point. "We sit very close to our Spanish cousins. And our African ones."

Lorna swallowed another heavy sip of whiskey and nodded, confirming what she knew.

"You are a long way from home, Lorna," Freya spoke quietly and placed her own glass down on the vanity. She placed both of her warm hands on Lorna's palm which held the diamond, and folded up the other woman's fingers softly to cover it once more. The movement caused Lorna's bottom lip to tremble slightly as she realised that Freya was denying her gift. "There are no tea parties here, no theatres or honest men. It is not a place for you to wander with such a jewel," Freya warned, her voice soft but with a note of urgency.

"I am not weak," Lorna pulled her hand back from Freya's roughly and pocketed the diamond once more. "I came here to ask for your help, not to be ridiculed."

Freya could understand that, she did not think the woman weak. Just in the wrong company.

"I am helping you, Mrs Delaney," Freya urged the woman to sit and found herself another seat. It took time for Lorna to battle with herself enough to lower into the stool behind her. When she saw the other woman perched quietly on the seat, she continued before she spooked her away. Lorna Delaney needed to know.

"The civilisation that you have come from has not yet found this part of the world, and the further you travel, the less you will see," Freya spoke, watching Lorna drain the remainder of the whiskey from her glass. She would need an escort home this eve. "Acts that are sins where you are from, are practiced in the open. Language and culture are things you will not know, that you will not be welcomed into."

The longer that Freya described her own island, and those beyond, the less colour was present in Lorna's somber face. The visions Lorna had imagined of the land they were headed, was green, safe and new. A fresh start. She had known it would not be the same, that she would need to adapt. She had envisioned James by her side and had as such thought herself prepared. James had been in a trance since they had left that she had become accustomed to. His barked orders at the crew, at her, had left her no opportunity to expand on where they were going. In the back of her mind she had known that she was fearful of the answers that he would give to her. Freya could almost see the connections in Lorna's brain confirming her fears, considering her past and future.

"James knows of the unknowns that you speak of," Lorna spoke, pulling herself from her thoughts and Freya was not sure whether her statement was directed at her, or was spoken as an attempt to calm her own fears.

"I am certain that he does," Freya nodded, "And yet, he would take you there. Take you to a place where you will not be welcome."

Lorna's gaze flicked to her own, and Freya could see unwavering loyalty in her eyes. "He will keep me safe."

Freya wondered why, if Lorna was so sure, that she had stayed to listen. She would offer her an out. She could not save her sister. Nor her mother. But maybe this woman, who had done no wrong except put her trust in a traitor.

"James Delaney is but one man, in an ocean where your screams would never be heard. Your body never found. Do you suspect that he would be by your side constantly, or would his business take precedence?"

Lorna's chin dropped slightly and her eyes glazed with tears, clearly these words were familiar to her. She had wondered them herself before.

"Will you be safe, in a world unknown, surrounded by a crew of paid criminals who would be offered the treasures of the new world? Do you trust all of the men on board that ship to turn down unseen jewels, unknown pleasures, just to protect you?"

Lorna's chair scraped back as she stood suddenly. She had heard enough, as evidence by the tears on her pale cheeks. As she gathered her skirts with shaky hands, Freya laid gentle fingertips on her velvet-clad wrist.

"I will help you to sail back to your home, to safety," Freya offered slowly, knowing before she had finished her sentence that Lorna would decline. Her loyalties ran deep. Loyalties, or maybe fear. Lorna did not raise her eyes again but shook her head slightly.

"I do not have a home any longer."

Brushing past her, Lorna rushed through the cabin door in a breeze of lillies, and Freya was once again left with the sound of rushed footsteps making their way off her ship. She did not need to turn to watch her leave, nor know that Taylor had make his way back down to her cabin.

"Follow her home, make sure no troubles come to her," Freya spoke clearly, slightly shaken by her conversation with the woman. "Do not get too close, Mr Delaney is a dangerous man."

No answer came from behind her, but the heavy boots on the deck indicated that he was following her order. Sighing deeply, Freya refilled her glass almost to the top. For not the first time this week, she prepared numb herself to the point where she hoped she could no longer feel a sinking dread leaking into her chest…

 **Weeeelllllll what do you think? Next up:**

 _James is not pleased when Lorna returns and can no longer look him in the eye. He finds himself more and more willing to make the words of a certain captain become reality… to see her ships at the bottom of the ocean._


End file.
